


The Rumor

by Paia_Loves_Pie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, And a little problematic, Here there be dead ppl, M/M, Magical Realism, Mycroft and Sherlock are good brothers, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Mystrade is Magic, Sherlock is Klaus, Umbrella Academy - Freeform, magical coercion, mystrade, references to death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:41:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24398929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paia_Loves_Pie/pseuds/Paia_Loves_Pie
Summary: A story in which Mycroft Holmes protects his brother, makes a mistake, apologizes, falls in love, feels very guilty, makes a bigger mistake, comes clean, and gets his happy ending.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 135
Kudos: 105
Collections: Mystrade Is Magic





	1. Prologue: In Which There is Tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> This story has some themes** which might make people uncomfortable. Please mind the tags, and read the end notes for additional details. 
> 
> This is also not the story I initially intended to write, and it's less fluffy than other works I've written up until this point. I blame The Umbrella Academy for making me fall in love with Klaus Hargreeves, and the pandemic for making me watch this TV show.

_One always expects that terrible news will be delivered dramatically. In back alleys, in the dark, in the rain with thunder and lightning to reflect one’s inner turmoil. But Mycroft had learned that, more often than not, it was dropped like a pebble in a pond - a quiet detonation in the middle of mundane, everyday moments like any other - and simply rippled outwards, systematically touching everything around it._

_He was going through reports on a Wednesday, making corrections while he picked at the remnants of a disappointing salad when a soft knock alerted him that Andrea was at the door. He read the story on her face before she even opened her mouth. Bad news. Mycroft had heard his fair share - deals gone wrong, votes cast for the other side, investments that didn’t pay off, an asset lost in the field._

_But this one hit harder._

_All of the air evacuated the room as Mycroft sat in his chair. The floor tilted ever so slightly sideways for a moment. Andrea’s words washed over him, and he felt her hands softly brushing his shoulder as she steadied him, recounting the general details so he wouldn’t need to hear it from anyone else. They had found him in his home, beaten to death. Suspect caught on CCTV. Diplomatic immunity._

_Mycroft inexplicably straightened his tie. Ran his fingers over the buttons on his waistcoat, assuring they were securely fastened, as if to contain himself, to make sure his insides stayed inside while the planet heaved him through space._

_And yet, the world continued to turn. Everyone around him carried on about their business, as if they had no idea. As though nothing had happened. Impossible. And yet._

_Mycroft had had many misgivings the day his brother entered the secret service. Interrogation. Translation. Seeing Truth when people only told lies. A specialty career, just like his big brother’s. The job was dangerous, but he’d wanted to help people. Make a difference. If the world could only see past the obfuscation, if we could stop hearing the lies we tell one another, there could be understanding. Peace, he’d said._

_Naive._

_But after a time, Mycroft had come to be thankful for his brother’s insight, seeing the truth of things that were mired in mistruths and misdirection. Even penetrating through the lies one told oneself. The biggest lie, Mycroft told himself on the way to the funeral, was that he could keep his brothers safe. Why hadn’t Sherrinford told him that?_

_Mycroft stood close to Sherlock as they watched their brother be lowered into the ground, shielding him with his umbrella as the sky finally deigned to rain - not a somber downpour but an anticlimactic English drizzle. He vowed to be more careful in the future. He would have to work harder to ensure Sherlock's safety. From conspiracy, from his enemies. Even from himself._


	2. In Which Mycroft Makes A Mistake

The warehouse was cold. Most of the windows were broken, and Mycroft preferred it that way. It was easier to look imposing when one had the advantage of a good coat, rather than sweating indelicately in one’s shirtsleeves. Garbage littered the floor and tables had been tipped over, dragging trails through the dust. Mycroft always liked it here; the disarray gave the place a wonderful ambiance. He’d purchased the abandoned building through a shadow company for a song and simply let it continue to fall into ruin. In a few years, he’d sell it and purchase another. One always needed a good abandoned building to do good work. For now, he would wait, very still in the dark. 

The motion sensor lights turned on, one by one, as Andrea escorted Detective Sergeant Lestrade to the single chair in the middle of the room. The devil was in the details and this one was special. Mycroft had ordered one leg to be intentionally shortened by several centimeters, giving it a wobbly backwards tip so as to help its occupant appreciate the truly precarious position they were in. 

It was human nature to rock on it as one sat there. Back and forth, back and forth, waiting in the dark behind their blindfold. Mycroft enjoyed the anticipation. But the DS was still, grabbing Mycroft’s attention. His head tilted slowly side to side, seeking a noise to guide him. When he heard nothing, his hands began to work at their bonds, easing around the smooth sides of the chair as he attempted to find something with which to catch it on and worry it apart. 

Mycroft simply watched for a few minutes. Then he scuffed his shoe in the grit. The sergeant stilled like deer. 

“Detective Sergeant Lestrade. Thank you for accepting my invitation.” 

“Well, turns out I couldn’t refuse your offer,” he said sarcastically. Still had spirit in him. That was good. The Rumor always took better hold in the feisty ones. Strong wills made for strong bonds. 

“It has come to my attention that you’ve made the acquaintance of a young man by the name of Sherlock Holmes.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.”

The Sergeant had no reason to protect Sherlock. They’d only known each other for a few days, but his morals were clearly strong. A man of principle. His actions had shown that, and a background check had confirmed it. But he needed to be certain. 

“You misunderstand me. I don’t wish him harm. In fact, I would rather like to ensure that he is protected, safe, and well.” 

“Is that so?”

“Indeed. I wonder if, perhaps, you would be convinced to keep an eye on him for me. And report back. With generous compensation, of course.”

“You really expect me to spy on a stranger for you in exchange for money? I don’t even know your name, but when I find out, I’m going to have you arrested for kidnapping and bribery.”

“Money, how gauche. I’m sure I can do quite a bit better than that.” Mycroft moved closer, allowing his footsteps to echo loudly against the floors, tapping his umbrella tip with a heavy click. The inspector’s body tensed, winding tighter as Mycroft’s footsteps approached. 

Mycroft leaned over the man and placed his mouth next to his ear.. 

“ _I heard a rumor_ ,” he said intently, enunciating each word clearly, “that you would watch over Sherlock Holmes.” 

The sergeant stiffened in his seat as the words wound around him and took hold, echoing in his ears. In his brain, in his heart, anchoring its claws inside his soul. 

“I would,” he said, with fervor. 

“That’s what I like to hear,” said Mycroft, self satisfied. “ _I heard a rumor_ that you would be a friend to Sherlock Holmes.” The sergeant nodded. “ _I heard a rumor,”_ Mycroft finished, “that you would protect Sherlock Holmes with your life.” He eased backward, allowing time for the words to take root and bind him. When Lestrade’s subtle trembling eased, he reached out and gently uncovered his eyes. 

Greg was a sight, to be sure. The sergeant was unfairly handsome, even rumpled from his journey and dazed like this. There was fear, of course, but also determination in his gaze. Mycroft reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a business card. 

“I’m going to give you my contact information. If you find that you need assistance with Sherlock, you may request whatever resources you need. I want to thank you in advance for your cooperation.” Mycroft reached down and cut his ties as Andrea stepped out from where she’d been waiting. Lestrade lurched to his feet, a bit wobbly. He would be unsteady and docile for a little while.

Andrea shot Mycroft a vaguely disapproving look, and he nodded, conceding that he’d been somewhat heavy-handed. But in this instance, he had to be _sure_. Nothing left to chance. Sherlock needed another pair of eyes on him, and Mycroft was sure he would accept help from this man who had already shown him kindness. He wasn’t asking the DS to go against his nature, simply reinforcing his...commitment. 

“Please take him home. If you’d be so kind as to ensure he’s provided with a glass of water and some paracetamol. He’s going to have quite the headache.”

“Of course, sir,” she said, and took hold of the inspector’s elbow, guiding his dizzy steps down the abandoned aisle and out to the waiting car. 

Mycroft needed a bit of air, himself. Paracetamol wouldn’t help the headache he was about to have, but it would be worth it. Sherlock needed another outlet, and what better mentor for a man who saw the dead than a homicide sergeant. Mycroft would ensure he was quickly promoted to Inspector. It wasn’t undue - he was confident Lestrade would do well in the position and petty internal politics had held him back thus far. Well. The Detective Chief Inspector’s nephew was about to hear a Rumor that job prospects were better in Leeds, leaving the DI position open, with the right words in the right ear, Lestrade would be properly compensated for his help. It was all going to plan. 

He climbed into his own car and directed the driver to take him home. He had work to do. The country wouldn’t influence itself.


	3. In Which Mycroft Has A Chat

Sherlock found Mycroft a week later in his offices at the Diogenes. He hadn’t set out to sequester himself there but he’d found it difficult to concentrate at home since Sherrinford’s death. He was trapped in a state of hypervigilance, unable to relax, lest something else escape his notice and threaten Sherlock too. He’d been monitoring the Detective Sergeant’s movements, trailing him with CCTV as he checked in on Sherlock every day, making sure the Rumor did its job. 

Mycroft took a perverse delight whenever Sherlock visited him at the club. As much as he wanted to uphold the tradition and dignity of these venerable halls, they were also full of tiresome windbags who could use a good surprise once in a while. His brother was disruptive, true, but not destructive. Those who had spoken out against Sherlock’s presence in the past had found themselves in difficult positions, and their petty rebellions had been quelled without too much trouble on Mycroft’s part. A quiet word in the right ear went a long way. 

Wherever Mycroft was, Sherlock would be welcome. There was no one on earth like his brother, not anymore, and Mycroft had vowed to be a sanctuary for him. 

When he arrived, the staff frowned at Sherlock’s inevitable antics as he theatrically tiptoed through the main hall with large, exaggerated steps that were somehow even louder than regular walking. His leather pants made a creaking noise with every movement, and the metal bangles on his wrists and ankles jangled like a gunshot in the silence. Sherlock grinned and stuck out his tongue at Mr Havisham as he passed by, which Mycroft would certainly hear about later. 

The staff escorted him to Mycroft’s office as quickly as possible, not trusting him to wander around on his own. Mycroft didn’t blame them. Things seemed to go missing around Sherlock with regularity, often found later squirreled away in his pockets. Always harmless things: lighters, corkscrews, class rings, and once a whole bag of Mycroft’s lemon drops, and Mycroft saw to it that they were usually returned to their rightful owners in due course. (The lemon drops hadn’t survived.)

Sherlock entered the room with a dramatic twirl, showing off the new suit jacket he’d found who-knows-where. It was ill-fitting, but presumably the hot-pink lining had caught his eye. The cut suggested it had been intended for a woman, but Sherlock carried it off effortlessly. Sherlock’s wardrobe was unfailingly creative - one day appearing as a homeless person, and another day looking as though he’d stepped directly off Savile Row, but today seemed to be a loud mixture of club-wear and Japanese street fashion which could have graced the cover of a magazine. Sherlock enjoyed being a chameleon, but today’s outfit was chosen for maximum shock value to the gray haired stumps he’d passed earlier, no doubt hoping his mesh tee-shirt would cause a coronary or twelve. 

He helped himself to Mycroft’s drinks cart, pouring a generous measure of vodka and soda in one glass, and a neat bourbon in another, setting the bourbon in front of Mycroft, and sipping his own through a bent straw he’d retrieved from a pocket. He hitched a leg up to sit on Mycroft’s desk, placing his bottom directly on top of some financial reports which Mycroft had been avoiding. 

But when Mycroft moved to take his glass, Sherlock placed his hand on top of it, blocking his grip 

  
“Brother,” Sherlock’s tone was censuring.

“Sherlock.” 

“You promised,” he accused quietly, “not to interfere. I’m allowed to have friends.”

“Sherlock, you haven’t got any friends. It had to be done for your own safety. You know how I worry.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “You haven’t got any friends, either, and this is exactly why. You can’t protect me from everything.” 

“I can try.” Mycroft’s jaw set mulishly as he tugged on the glass. Sherlock slapped his hand. 

“Undo, it Mycroft. You promised me. You promised Ford. Just because you can doesn’t mean it’s the  _ right _ option.” Sherlock’s lip protruded in a slight pout. Half affectation, half genuine. He was right. Mycroft  _ had _ promised, but his panic had gotten the better of him. Logically he knew he was still grieving, but his emotions failed to be swayed by logic this time. He’d been hasty and overstepped a line they’d all set years ago. 

“He was good to me before you stepped in with your giant nose, brother. You should have trusted us. It’s not too late to undo what’s been done.” 

It was true. The sergeant had taken Sherlock home and cleaned him up instead of arresting him for possession. He had waited while Sherlock came down off his high, and then referred him to drug services instead of checking his pockets. Fed him tea and toast and sat with him - all this even before Mycroft had told him any Rumors. 

“I worry.” And that was Mycroft’s entire personality in a nutshell, he was well aware. 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock’s frown of disapproval softened and he let go of the glass, knowing that  _ I worry _ was Mycroft-ish for  _ I love you, but don’t tell anyone _ . “Promise me you’ll take it off, Mycroft. You must make it up to him. People aren’t chess pieces.” 

Mycroft’s gut churned a bit, as he took a sip of his drink. It wasn’t the bourbon’s fault. Generally he had no qualms about spreading his little Rumors, but normally they were used in defense of the nation, on despicable people. Not for his own gain, and not on upstanding citizens. In the past, he’d always relied on Sherrinford to see the Truth of things, to guide him to the right path - the better path, to know who was trustworthy and who was not, and even that hadn’t worked out as planned. But now he only had his own intuition - he’d lost his north star, the one who’d kept him honest. He tipped his head to Sherlock, conceding. 

“Alright, Sherlock. As you wish.” 

Sherlock took a hard candy out of his pocket and placed it on Mycroft’s desk. A thank you, and a peace offering. Then he pulled out the fountain pen Mycroft had been missing for the past week, and handed it over as well, a grin lighting up his face with mischief. 

“You’re a terror, Sherlock. How on Earth am I meant to apologize to a man I’ve kidnapped and brainwashed? He won’t even remember I’ve told him a Rumor.” 

Sherlock paused for a moment, blowing a bubble with his straw. He shrugged.

“Take him out to dinner?”


	4. In Which Mycroft Apologizes

Dinner ended up being coffee. Mycroft was waiting for Greg when he stepped out of the Yard. His umbrella shielded him from the rain while he idly smoked his cigarette, enjoying a rare moment of peace in between crises. If only his stomach would get the message. It twisted with anxiety as, for once, Mycroft felt unsure of himself. 

In all his years, he’d undone only a handful of Rumors. Now, he deliberated about them, doled them out as needed, chose his wording carefully, and he was so rarely wrong. But in this, Sherlock was correct: in his panic, his fear, his grief...he’d misjudged. Mycroft was not accustomed to second-guessing himself, but now he was stuck with the uncomfortable responsibility of removing a geas from a man who was none the wiser, and whom he’d last seen in a dusty warehouse, bound and dazed. 

This was going to be awkward. 

He caught the sergeant as he walked past, his collar turned up against the rain as he headed for the tube station. 

“Detective Sergeant Lestrade.”

The man whirled around and stared him in the face. 

“Do I know you?” 

“We’ve been acquainted, yes. May I offer you my umbrella?” 

“What do you want?” 

“I’d like to have a conversation, and I would quite like to have it out of the rain, if you don’t mind.” 

“Hang on, I know your voice.” Lestrade’s eyes narrowed and Mycroft could tell the exact instant that recognition struck. “You bastard! I don’t know what you’re playing at, but if you don’t move yourself along quick-like, I’ll have you arrested! You’re on the cameras, now,” Greg pointed to the security feeds posted outside the building. Of course, Mycroft knew where they were, and of course Greg couldn’t know that.

“I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Detective.” 

“Can’t - hang on. What do you mean  _ can’t allow? _ ” Greg’s volume was rising, and he’d forgotten all about the rain as he pointed an accusatory finger at Mycroft. “You can’t just pick up members of the police force, stuff them in swanky cars, drag them out to god knows where, blindfold them, hand them a business card, and then piss off like nothing’s happened. And now you want me to go somewhere with you? Get fucked, mate. If I see you around here again, I'll have you booked, I don’t care what you will and won’t ‘ _ allow’. _ ” Mycroft could hear the quotations. He pinched the bridge of his nose, resisting the urge to tell another Rumor, just to get the Sergeant to cooperate. But that would be frivolous, and entirely counterproductive. 

He sucked in a deep breath, snuffed his cigarette, and collapsed his umbrella, letting the rain fall down on his head. A show of vulnerability. “Please,” he said simply. “I would like the opportunity to apologize properly, and I hope you’ll be gracious enough to grant me a few moments of your time.” 

“And what if I don’t agree? You’ll have me kidnapped again?” 

“Nothing so dire. Sherlock will simply be utterly disappointed in me, and I’ll be forced under the weight of his disgust to try again until you do. He’s rather taken a shine to you, and took care to impress upon me the exact magnitude of my transgressions.” 

Perhaps it was the mention of Sherlock, but Greg’s face softened slightly from his anger. His shoulders were still high about his ears, half blocking the rain and half taut from tension. His body remembered what his mind could not. Lestrade’s instincts were good. 

“There’s a coffee shop on the corner. You’ve got five minutes.” Greg gestured for Mycroft to go first and then proceeded to trail after him, clearly not willing to let Mycroft out of his sight. 

They took a seat in the back, both ordering a coffee so as to remain undisturbed. Greg got a plain black coffee, not at all his usual order, and left it untouched on the table in front of him as he simmered. Mycroft took a moment with the cream and sugar to make it palatable, and perhaps to give Greg a little more time to calm down before he began. Mycroft didn’t do a lot of apologizing, and though he’d given it a lot of thought, had yet to come up with sufficient words to both adequately explain the situation and also gain the man’s forgiveness. Perhaps forgiveness was too much to expect. 

“Well?” Clearly Greg’s patience was strained and he’d already begun his mental countdown until the moment he walked out the door.

“Detective Sergeant Lestrade, I have wronged you. I caused you inconvenience, upset, and indignity, and violated your personal freedoms, and for that, I’m very sorry.” The words felt awkward in his mouth, and they were absolutely inadequate, but they were all he had.

“Damn straight,” Greg agreed angrily. “Where do you get off taking people off the street like that?” 

“I had no right, you’re absolutely correct.” Mycroft’s easy capitulation seemed to throw Greg off his game a little. From the set of his jaw, he’d been expecting a fight. 

“I don’t care how worried you are about your brother. If I hear of anything else like this, you can bet your arse I’ll be hounding your doorstep, mate. You can’t just pull citizens away and threaten them.” 

“Sherlock has already said as much. He’ll help you, no doubt.” 

“I don’t want to see you around here again, Mr. Holmes.” 

“Rest assured that I shall make myself scarce.”

“Are we done here?” Greg didn’t wait for an answer before beginning to stand.

“It seems we are,” Mycroft said, rising from his seat. He held out his hand, and held his breath. 

Greg stared at it for a moment, and then took it, grudgingly. The moment before their palms made contact, he released Greg from his Rumors. 

“I do hope that you will still contact me should you require help with Sherlock. Regardless of the state of our personal connection, my resources are nonetheless at your disposal.” And now Greg was under no compulsion to do so, a fact which made Mycroft simultaneously relieved and apprehensive. There were no safety nets now. All was resting on the strength of his good will. 

“If I contact you, Mr Holmes, you can be sure that it’ll be for his sake, not for yours.” 

“That is all I require, Sergeant. Thank you for your time. I hope someday I’ll also be granted your forgiveness.” 

Greg snorted through his nose and turned on his heel. “That’ll be the day,” he muttered as he walked out of the shop, tossing his full coffee into the bin. 

Mycroft sat back down and sipped his drink. He pulled out his mobile and sent a text. 

7:57 To: Sherlock

_ It is done _

  
  


7:57 From: Sherlock

_ The truth will set you free _

  
  


8:03 From: Sherlock

_ Thank you _


	5. In Which Mycroft Is A Good Brother

When Mycroft got the phone call, he sped to Sherlock’s dingy flat - a magpie’s nest, in truth, and met Lestrade at the door. Now a Detective Inspector, Lestrade was clearly off-duty in jeans and a button-down shirt which was covered in dirt and crumpled hastily up his forearms. He’d been doing home improvement, going by the dust in his cuffs and the scrapes on his knuckles. Sherlock must have called him first. His face was creased with worry and his hair was spiked on end where Greg’s fingers had been run through it in frustration. 

“He threw up once, and his pulse is thready but he’s talking fine and his color looks okay. He handed me this and told me to call you.” Greg held out a slip of creased paper with a scrawled list in an untidy hand that Mycroft recognized as Sherlock’s. 

“I think he’s hallucinating, though,” he continued as Mycroft entered the flat. “He keeps talking with someone he calls Ford, but otherwise he seems calm.”

“It’s quite alright, Inspector. This isn’t the first time.” He perused the note in his hand, and didn’t see anything to cause undue concern. The amounts were precise to two decimals, and within tolerance. Sherlock wasn’t trying to kill himself, Mycroft knew, just trying to silence his ghosts. Sherlock had marinated himself in drugs for a solid month after Sherrinford’s funeral, only beginning to sober after the unlikely friendship had sprung up between his brother and the detective. Since then, his use had been sporadic, but he supposed even Sherlock wanted some peace and quiet once in a while. But he achieved peace of mind at the expense of his body. 

Mycroft had been tempted to follow him into chemical oblivion from time to time, only abstaining from self-destructing in his own grief by the grace of keeping an eye on Sherlock. His world had a gaping chasm torn in it, in the shape of Sherrinford, and no other being could fill the space, though Sherlock had done his best, coming round to his offices with the sole purpose of being ridiculous, so as to take Mycroft’s mind off of things. This was the first time Mycroft had seen Greg in person since that disastrous meeting in the coffee shop, though.

“He called me in a panic, asked me to come over and said he needed my help to arrest a criminal,” Greg said. “I hadn’t heard from him for a few days after the severed foot case, which was odd. Normally he’s pestering me for cold cases after a ‘fun’ one like that. And he never waits for me before he charges ahead into trouble, so I thought I’d pop ‘round.” The crease between his brows deepened as he looked at Sherlock, sweating lightly and waving his arms about where he lay on the couch. He was muttering half a conversation to himself, by all appearances. 

“Turns out all he needed was for me to call you,” Greg told him, irritated. “Looks like being a bit of a twat runs in the family.” 

Mycroft smiled mirthlessly. “I know,” he said simply, taking the rudeness without returning it. Greg was clearly still holding a grudge, and it was the least that Mycroft owed. “Thank you for looking in on him.”

At his voice, Sherlock turned to Mycroft and pointed a shaky finger in his direction. “It was you!” he gasped in outrage. “Ford says  _ you’re _ the one who ate the last gingersnap and you blamed it on Redbeard. That was naughty, Mycroft.” He turned to Greg with an imperious wave, “Lestrade, you may arrest him now. The guilt is written all over his face.” 

“Yes, I’m afraid it’s true,” Mycroft confessed soberly, without a hint of condescension in his voice. “I was young and foolish, then.” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, searching his brother for trickery. “You and your  _ rumors _ .” He spat the word before going back to discussing the merits of various biscuits to the thin air in front of him. 

Mycroft turned to the detective who was fussing at the sink with a glass of water and a wet cloth. “I want you to know I’m grateful to you for looking out for his best interests,” Mycroft said stiffly, “in spite of your opinion of me.” Greg was the type of man who, once his good opinion was lost, would require an overwhelming burden of proof to change his mind. But Mycroft held a very good opinion of Greg. In another context, Mycroft might have thought...but no. No, Mycroft had marked himself the lesser man - stained his hands red. 

In the two years since his release from Mycroft’s servitude, Greg had proved Sherlock right. He continued to watch over Sherlock because he was a good man. He genuinely cared and went out of his way to mentor him, checking in and worrying about him in a way that his spell hadn’t dictated. Even showing a small delight in Sherlock's antics, the way no one save Mycroft had ever done before. And anyone who loved Sherlock had Mycroft’s love, which made a sum total of three individuals in this world whom Mycroft loved: Gregory Pierre Lestrade, Sherlock, and Sherrinford, who was now dead and situated somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock’s coffee table and talking to Sherlock about biscuits, evidently. 

As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock turned to him again with the same frowning, accusatory face. He wore that face often in Mycroft’s presence. “You shouldn’t have spread rumors, Mykie. I’m allowed to have friends, you know.” 

“I know, Sherlock,” he admitted with a not insignificant amount of personal shame. What was done was done. It had been so long since he’d met someone who was truly honest, he’d forgotten they existed. He’d taken the easy route instead of the right one. And Greg was his living reminder to do better. To try harder. He was a skilled politician even without the use of his talents. He could have bribed him or arranged something other solution but he hadn’t even given Greg a chance. 

“Will you be alright if I leave you alone for the evening, Lockie? You’ve settled yourself? You won’t take any more?”

Sherlock relaxed back into the couch. His body was trembling slightly, but his face softened into peace.

“Yes, 'Ford is here. Is it strange to feel lonely when they all go away?” he asked in a small, wondering voice. Mycroft went to sit down next to him on the sofa, in the curve where his lanky hip made room.

“Not strange at all,” he reassured, leaning over to place a blanket over his chest. It was patterned with skulls, but at least it seemed clean.

“He’s talking, but I can’t hear him,” Sherlock confessed in a whisper, staring at the coffee table. “He’s upset. I think he gets lonely too. Must have got the dosage wrong.” 

“I would rather you didn’t experiment too much, brother, mine. How will you solve cases if you turn your magnificent brain to jelly?”

“Brother, I solved a case!” he said excitedly, flapping his hand in boyish pride. “Mrs Minecki wasn’t happy to be footless. It’s not like she can get a prosthetic, you know. But we got her boyfriend - what a dull individual. She’s the one who told me where the drugs were,” he said in a too-loud whisper. 

Gregory turned and gave Sherlock an odd look. He’d been trying to politely ignore their conversation, but Sherlock was often impossible to ignore, especially with statements like that. 

“I’m happy you were able to assist,” Mycroft told his brother, gently pressing him to lay back down. The sweating had subsided, and he simply looked sleepy now. 

“I did. I did a good thing, Mycroft.” He yawned and tucked a fist under his chin as he curled up on the sofa. 

“You should drink some water, lad,” Greg said, setting a glass down in the middle of the table. 

To Mycroft’s surprise, Sherlock shuffled himself around and actually picked up the glass, drinking half of it, and setting the cup back down half a foot to the left. “He didn’t mean it, Ford,” Sherlock explained to the air. 

Mycroft patted his brother on the shoulder and smoothed his damp curls back before picking up his umbrella and heading for the door. Sherlock would be okay, and he couldn't put off his meeting with the Prime Minister any longer. Greg would stay with him. As he stepped outside, he was surprised to find that Greg had followed him out. They walked out on the step and Gregory half-closed the door behind him, ostensibly for privacy. 

“Is he, you know. All right?” Greg asked carefully. His tone was cautious not to offend, not for Mycroft’s sake, but out of respect for Sherlock. “Should he be taking those drugs? I mean. Of course he shouldn’t, but is he on other...uh...medicine that I should be aware of?” 

“Sherlock is not a schizophrenic, Detective. Nor is he psychotic or delusional or whatever other diagnoses come to mind.” Mycroft didn’t want to say too much - it wasn’t his information to tell, but his brother wasn’t mad. “Sometimes, he merely sees too much. The drugs aren’t healthy, I agree, and I wish to heaven he wouldn’t poison himself so. But Sherlock, despite appearances, calculates his usage with precision. Hence the list,” he said, holding up the paper Greg had handed him. “We’ve got an agreement that I’ll be told if he takes anything, and that he’ll provide me a receipt.” 

The answer didn’t quite satisfy the detective. Mycroft could see on his face that Greg's mind was still whirring, but he was reluctant to press him for more answers. Talking to Mycroft wasn’t high on his list of preferred activities.

“I think you’ll find that, should you ask him, Sherlock would be willing to tell you what you wish to know. He won’t take any offense - he’s fully aware he’s a mildly absurd individual. Much of what he says sounds quite outrageous, but Sherlock is extremely good at lying by being very exacting about the truths he tells. And he trusts you,” Mycroft added, his voice going soft.  _ I trust you. _ "If he doesn't want to say, he will simply tell you whatever he's comfortable with sharing." 

Greg nodded a wobbly, unsure movement that was only half agreement, but willing to drop the matter for now. 

“Thanks,” he said grudgingly, after discarding several questions. “For coming.” 

“If you ever have need of me,” he said, “I will always come.” He turned before he could say anything incriminating and walked down the steps to where his car was waiting. He got in without looking back. 


	6. In Which Mycroft Reaches Out

The day Sherlock showed up on CCTV with a new companion, Mycroft was concerned. It was clear, even with the grainy video, that Sherlock was besotted, swirling his coat and peacocking. Mycroft forcibly resisted the urge to pick up the phone and have him whisked away for questioning. Everyone knew how that had turned out last time. The man was clearly military, a doctor by his manner, and obviously taken with Sherlock in return. At first glance, he was both perfect and dangerous, and Mycroft aimed to meet him in person. Perhaps without the warehouse this time. 

Lestrade noticed when he arrived on the scene of the shooting. He always noticed when Mycroft was around, watching him. Not necessarily hostile, but wary. It made sense, Mycroft supposed. Greg might trust Mycroft with Sherlock’s welfare, but Mycroft couldn’t erase the past and even though he’d been released from the Rumor, it stood to reason that Greg would remain cautious of a man who’d kidnapped him...even if he’d apologized. Some apologies were inherently insufficient.

Greg was in the middle of trying to make sure Sherlock stayed put long enough to be assessed for injuries, and Mycroft didn’t miss the calculating look on his face as he glanced sideways to where John Watson was standing in the shadows. 

Lestrade had a quick word with his sergeant before breaking away from the scene and walking towards him. Mycroft’s pulse leaped in his throat. He couldn’t regret protecting his brother, but a small part of him regretted that he had forever lost the regard of a good man. He met, and influenced, so many members of the political elite, and all of them were awful people. Corrupt, cheating, lying grubs. He moved them around like chess pieces. Nudged them here and there. They never remembered his little Rumors, but followed through on the impulses all the same. But now, he knew better. Greg would have looked after Sherlock anyway, and for that stalwart caretaking of the one thing - the one person - that Mycroft held most precious in the world, Mycroft held Greg in high esteem. 

And all for nothing. He was a lousy reptile like the rest of them, no matter his intentions. And he would never be able to confess what he’d done. All the same, Mycroft couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see him in person. He kept their interactions rare, understanding that Greg would rather not have him around, so he parceled their face-to-face meetings out like sweets, once every six months or so.

As Greg reached him, Mycroft smiled politely, hiding his inner turmoil. 

“Hello, Mr Holmes. Should have known you’d show up, what with Sherlock in the middle of things.” 

“Hello, Detective Inspector.”

“You know, if you wanted to talk, you could just call,” Greg said. 

Mycroft’s heart dropped into his stomach. He knew Greg was teasing, but the suggestion that Greg might be open to more contact was impossible, and to have it dangled in front of him was an elegant torture crafted specifically for him. 

“I appreciate your dedication to caring for Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “I can ensure he makes it home.” 

“What do you make of him?” Greg asked, nodding at the pair who were approaching. Sherlock’s hair was wild, and his suit disheveled, but his attention was as sharp as ever. Of course he’d noticed Mycroft. Even if he hadn’t, Sherrinford certainly would have. The doctor at his side seemed puzzled, and also nervous, casting Mycroft a concerned look. 

“Brother.” 

“Brother. How are you?   
  


“You two are brothers?” Doctor Watson looked back and forth between them before sticking his hand out to shake when it became apparent that Sherlock wasn’t going to lead the introductions. “Dr John Watson, nice to meet you.” 

“No it isn’t, John. Don’t fib. It’s never nice to meet Mycroft. He says hello in alleyways and warehouses and liminal spaces and then he spreads gossip. It’s dreadful, you don’t want to talk to him.” Sherlock shot Mycroft a warning look. “‘Ford says John can stay,” he announced with a muleish jut to his chin. And Mycroft would have to take his word at that. 

John clearly didn’t know what to think, but Mycroft shook his hand nonetheless. 

“A pleasure to meet you, Doctor Watson.” 

Sherlock waggled his finger at Mycroft. “Don’t you whisk him off to a dark place, Mycroft. None of your whispers. I won’t have you poison him.” 

Mycroft looked at the ground, visibly giving way to Sherlock’s wishes in a way he rarely exposed in public. He’d surely done enough meddling. Lestrade would keep an eye on them both, and if Sherrinford approved of John, well. That would have to be enough. Though he was dead, he still saw the truth of things. In death, as in life, they’d both joined forces with Sherlock as the nexus. 

“If you’re looking for a good Chinese, there’s one just down the way,” Mycroft told John. “Sherlock often forgets about trivial things, like food, and sleep,” he said. “And danger.” 

At the word ‘danger’, John’s eye gained a glint. He’d been warned. 

“Come on, John. Would you like to know how to tell a good Chinese place from the door handle? I’ll show you.” He walked away, not waiting for John to follow. John nodded at Mycroft politely, then turned with a military spin and followed after like a good soldier. 

Greg turned back to Mycroft as the two men walked away. He assessed Mycroft with an inscrutable look. 

“Any ideas as to the perpetrator?” 

Greg glanced back at the scene, the flashing lights from the police cars casting strange shadows over his profile in the dark. “None yet. Preliminary results from the trajectory are nearly impossible, honestly. You’d have to practically be magical to make a shot like that.” 

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully, but said nothing. He’d have to make some more inquiries about this Dr Watson when he returned to his office tomorrow. 

“Sherlock said something the other day,” Greg said. “I wanted to ask you about it, if you’ve got time.” 

“How can I assist?” 

“You said Sherlock’s secrets were his to keep. But sometimes...sometimes he knows things he couldn’t know. I asked him about it, and he waved me off and said to talk to you. Said you were good at spinning the truth. Which is a lot like what you said about him, to be honest.” 

Mycroft repressed a sigh, then pulled out a cigarette, offering one to Greg who declined, shoving up his sleeve to show his nicotine patch. Of course. Of course he was trying to quit. He and Sherlock had made a pact. 

“He’s not wrong,” Mycroft admitted after the first few drags. “When one works in government, one gets quite good at telling people a certain version of the truth.” 

“Is that what you’ll do? Tell me a version?” Greg tilted his head, looking at Mycroft as though he were a puzzle to solve.

Mycroft shook his head. No. “If Sherlock has given his permission, I’ll disclose whatever you’d like to know. But not here.” 

“Oh, are we getting another coffee, then?” 

The cheek. “No, I think I can do better than that,” Mycroft said with a resigned smile. No, they wouldn’t be going anywhere public. Or anywhere too private, lest it feel like a date. Mycroft couldn’t be trusted. “Are you finished with your duties here?” 

“Yeah, Donovan’s got the scene.” He turned and waved to his sergeant, miming some hand signals that Mycroft supposed might be interpreted as a goodbye.

He walked over to the passenger door and opened it for Greg before settling into the driver’s seat. 

“Bit different, sitting in front,” Greg jibed. “Glad I’m not going to be stuffed in the back this time. It’s much nicer without the blindfold.” 

Mycroft pressed his lips together. “I promise my hospitality this evening won’t include any harm to your person,” he said. 

The guilt welled up in his chest. A thread of panic crept up the back of his neck as he realized he was about to tell Lestrade something no one outside their family knew. It had been a protected secret for so long, but after five years of looking after Sherlock, he felt Greg had a right to know. 

“You shall be safe with me.”


	7. In Which Mycroft Tells A Truth

They pulled up to the Diogenes and Mycroft led Gregory inside, placing his finger against his lips, warning Greg to remain silent. Greg raised an eyebrow but played along during the trip upstairs to his reserved office, where they could finally talk. Mycroft nervously offered his cabinet of spirits and Greg let out a low whistle before making a selection. Greg settled on the low leather couch and Mycroft took the matching armchair across. And then he found himself at an uncharacteristic loss of words. He simply didn’t know where to begin. And he was wary of being laughed out of the room. 

“Lestrade,” he began.

“I imagine after five years you could call me Greg,” Greg interrupted. 

“Greg.” Mycroft took a deep breath. “I’m well aware that what I’m about to tell you may sound quite fantastical to a reasoned man of logic and evidence such as yourself. But I swear on Sherlock’s life that it is the absolute truth.” He swore on the most precious thing he knew. 

“On my seventh birthday, I received a most extraordinary gift.” 

Greg sat forward to listen.

“My mother gave birth.” 

“You’re telling me that you and Sherlock have the same birthday?”

“The very same. But you’ll find that that detail is, in fact, the most unremarkable part of this story. You see…” he paused, mustering himself, trying and failing to find the words to help this sound less fantastical. “Before that day, my mother had not been pregnant. The birth was spontaneous and remains unexplained. And yet, that afternoon, two small boys were born healthy and full-term, father unknown, and having fully gestated in a matter of hours.”

Greg’s brow furrowed. “Wait…two? But...who...? Mycroft, now I know you’re pulling my leg.”

“We named them Sherlock and Sherrinford.” Mycroft’s face remained serious.

Greg’s hand came up to smooth over his mouth. “So. You’re saying Sherlock was a bloody immaculate conception?” 

“Just so, for lack of any other explanation, anyway. If I hadn’t seen my mother transform from a slim woman into a woman in labor before my eyes, I never would have believed such a thing was possible.”

Mycroft was supremely glad he’d had the forethought to provide Greg with a stiff drink and a place to sit prior to beginning his story.

“Other than the unusual circumstances of their birth, the two grew up as normal children, albeit supremely precocious. We didn’t realize anything was amiss until they were five. I was twelve. In a fit of latent Catholic guilt, my mother brought us to church on Easter Sunday. We had never previously attended church, other than the usual Christmas panto and that sort of thing. But on this occasion, my mother stayed behind to speak to the priest. About what, I don’t recall.

“As they talked, Sherlock wandered away and began talking to himself. We didn’t realize anything was wrong until he suddenly shrieked and started crying. We were all puzzled, since nothing had happened to him while I was watching, and he insisted he hadn’t injured himself. The church was empty except for the priest and our family. Nevertheless, Sherlock became very distressed, insisting he saw a boy covered in blood hiding under a pew. I’ll never forget the way the priest’s face drained as Sherlock described what he saw. 

“We left quickly after, but Sherlock was inconsolable. Sherrinford insisted he was telling the truth, even though, when questioned, he freely admitted he had not seen the boy either. Sherlock hadn’t been given to falsehoods in the past, and Sherrinford had always been extraordinarily truthful, even when it was to his detriment. The next day, Sherlock began talking to an imaginary friend he called Victor. He held entire one-sided conversations, as if someone were actually there. And Sherrinford continued to support him, adamant that Sherlock was being truthful.”

Greg’s face ran through a series of emotions. He seemed to forget he was holding a glass at all, and it nearly slipped from his fingers before he set it down safely on the low table in front of him. 

“Intrigued, I rode my bicycle to the library and researched the history of the church, hoping to find a clue, but I found nothing. Then I researched the priest, and found that prior to his appointment in our town, a boy had gone missing in his previous parish. I made a photocopy of the article I’d found and cut the boy’s picture out of the copy so as not to give Sherlock any context. When I showed it to him, he immediately and correctly identified Victor Trevor. And that was how we realized that Sherlock sees the dead.”

Greg had grown increasingly incredulous, eyes widening and hands moving restlessly. He was speechless, and didn’t seem to know what to do with his face. Mycroft waited for him to laugh. But the silence stretched out. “You might say it was Sherlock’s first case,” Mycroft joked a little. But it fell flat.

“Mycroft…” Lestrade sat there looking stunned. “I don’t know what to say.” 

“I’m not asking you to believe me,” Mycroft reassured him. That was simply too much of a stretch. “I’m simply relaying the facts as I know them, in the hopes that you might come to understand Sherlock better.” 

Greg seemed to take this in for a moment, then he nodded. Mycroft could see his mind working as he gathered bits and pieces of his history with Sherlock, suddenly making sense of strange things he hadn’t been able to explain before.

“So…” Greg uncrossed his legs and shifted in his seat, then re-crossed them again. “When Sherlock is talking to himself, he’s really…?” He didn’t want to say the words, but Mycroft knew what he was asking. 

“Sherlock drugs himself from time to time, not because he’s a junkie, per se, but because every once in a while, he simply wants to be alone.” 

Greg lifted his drink and took a sip, hands shaking ever so slightly. He was doing much better than Mycroft had expected, to be honest. Greg was stalwart, but this was information that would shake any man. 

“You said...you said Sherrinford is Sherlock’s twin…but.” Greg didn’t want to say these words either. 

“Sherrinford was also special. Just as remarkable as Sherlock, in his own way. Although it took longer to suss out, he had a knack for knowing the truth of things. He could tell when someone was lying, and moreover, he ‘heard’ the truth of the matter the moment a falsehood was uttered. You can imagine he and I butted heads quite a bit when I began my career in politics.” Mycroft wetted his throat with his own drink, now. “One day, very shortly before you and Sherlock became acquainted, Ford came upon some sensitive information. He…’ _heard’_ a truth that someone didn’t want exposed. He was stabbed to death, to keep him quiet.” It had been many years ago, now, but the pain of it still gripped him. Revenge hadn’t resolved his grief at all, and Sherrinford’s presence lingered like a shadow. Sherlock’s shadow.

“Ford... I’ve heard that name before,” Greg uttered in a small voice as he put old memories together in a new understanding. 

“Even after death, Ford remains Sherlock’s constant companion. And, it seems, he hasn’t lost his knack for knowing the truth. I would be wary of telling lies to Sherlock,” he cautioned. “It will do you no good.” 

“It must have been strange growing up with such remarkable brothers,” Greg said, in a surprising moment of empathy. 

“I was more than able to hold my own,” Mycroft said enigmatically. 

Greg looked at him. Then stared. “Are you…?” He didn’t seem to know how to word it, but Mycroft understood. 

But Mycroft didn’t say anything more on the subject. He couldn’t tell Greg that he was “special” too. It would lead to more questions, and Mycroft couldn’t admit what he’d done. It would damage their healing relationship irreparably. Sherlock, Sherrinford - they saw the truth, restored balance. Mycroft only spoke lies. It was nothing to be proud of. 

“Suffice it to say that after the twins were born, I had many questions, especially about the circumstances of my own birth. “Holmes” is my mother’s surname, and no father is listed on my birth certificate.” 

Greg sat there, just processing. Mycroft let the silence rest between them, taking measured sips of his own drink, though inside, he was anything but calm. He knew it was only a matter of time. There was something weighty in the room with them, now. Greg had been brought into the fold, and he wasn’t a detective for nothing. Eventually the truth would out. But he could hope to mitigate the damage as much as possible. 

“Mycroft, I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do with this.” 

“You aren’t obligated to do anything. You may continue on just as you have been. You’ve been very good for Sherlock, and I'm very grateful you continue to watch over him.” 

“Yes, so you’ve said. He just needed a little guidance, that’s all,” Mycroft looked away to hide his shame from Greg. “God. Seeing the dead, that would make anyone a bit wild, you know? I can’t begin to imagine.”

“There are precious few people I’ll allow to associate freely with Sherlock, and even fewer people whom he trusts, but you may be counted as one of them without reservation. I’ve no doubt you’ve got his best interests at heart.” 

“Aren’t you happy you had me kidnapped?” 

Mycroft winced and his face twisted into a humorless smile. “No,” he said simply. “I’m not glad. I was sincere in my apology to you - it was an egregious breach of trust and personal autonomy on my part, which will not be repeated. But I will say that I wish we had met under different circumstances,” he offered.

Greg huffed a laugh. “Fair enough, I suppose.” he finished off his drink, the ice cubes clinking in the bottom. “So what do I do now?” he asked. 

“Merely carry on as you have been,” Mycroft said simply. “I trust your instincts. And if ever you should need my assistance with Sherlock, you know how to find me.” 

“And if I need assistance with other things?” 

Mycroft looked at him suspiciously, quirking an eyebrow. 

“Such as?”

“How to tell a good Chinese by the door handle,” he said with a cheeky grin. “Or where to find some more of this very fine bourbon.” 

Mycroft was stunned. It almost sounded like...flirting. Immediately his heart was pulverized with guilt. Even if he were interested, Mycroft could never become intimate with this man, not with his secrets hanging shrouded between them. He’d already committed a crime against him - resigned him to servitude, no. Slavery, really. If Gregory needed anything, Mycroft owed him such a debt that it could never be repaid. 

“If it is within my power to provide, Gregory Lestrade, I shall.” His tone was utterly sincere. 

Greg seemed struck dumb yet again, not expecting such a response to a light tease. “Thank you,” he said. He sounded uncertain, but willing to take him at face value. 

Mycroft stood from the sofa and walked over to his drinks cabinet. He stoppered the bottle of bourbon and handed it to Greg, resolving never to disclose its price or who had gifted it to him. Money was meaningless. Words were falsehoods. But actions mattered. He couldn’t reverse the past, but perhaps he’d be allowed to atone. 

“Anything, Greg.” Greg took the bottle with both hands, looking at his eyes for a clue as to what was happening. 

“I’ll have my driver take you home,” he said, sending a message on his phone. “I’ll ask you not to speak of this to anyone, although you already know this. I trust you’ll keep Sherlock’s confidence.” 

“I’d protect Sherlock with my life,” he said, seeming surprised at his own answer. Mycroft grimaced a facsimile of a smile, accepting the pain in his chest was a permanent fixture, now.

“I know you would. Goodnight, Greg.” 

When the door closed, Mycroft sat down on the couch and buried his face in his hands.


	8. In Which Mycroft is Honest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to meansgirl for your insightful comments on this chapter.

Predictably, once he'd had a chance to absorb the information, Greg had questions. A lot of them. Mycroft welcomed him to the Diogenes a week later and once again offered him a quiet drink and a listening ear. He had to admit that it wasn't entirely selfless. Having Greg in his space sent a warm, forbidden thrill through Mycroft's body. He tried to tamp it down, shove it aside, place it in a box where it belonged, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore as they saw more of each other. Greg was a man with a curious mind, driven to make sense of the world, but for some things even Mycroft did not have the answers he sought. 

_What happens after we die? Are my ancestors still around? What are ghosts made of? Can Sherlock talk to anyone he wants to? Could he summon Freddie Mercury? Where are they when they’re not talking to Sherlock? Why did some ghosts seek Sherlock out, and others didn’t?_

He’d had many of the same questions and thoughts as a young man when they first discovered Sherlock’s ability, and in the time since, had come to very few conclusions, most of which couldn’t be verified. But he could listen attentively, nod, keep Greg company, and provide solidarity in their strange little club of three (and a half). 

“Thank you, Mycroft. I don’t mean to treat you like a paranormal expert or anything. It’s just a lot to wrap my head around, you know? I know theology isn’t your wheelhouse, but. All the same. Thanks for, I don’t know, letting me use you as a sounding board, I guess. I figured a big thinker like you would have some insight, maybe.”

“I dare to say that you are also ‘a big thinker,’ Detective.”

“That’s very flattering, but I told you, it’s ‘Greg’.”

Again, the frisson of energy came over him, tingling through his body like adrenaline. Mycroft resisted falling prey to the familiarity of his first name - at least out loud. In his mind, he was “Greg,” but when he spoke it was always “Detective” or “Inspector.” He didn’t deserve such liberties. 

Mycroft looked away and cleared his throat. Greg looked exasperated at his non-answer, but there was no true irritation in his expression. In fact, it was rather like the look he directed at Sherlock when he was being extravagant, as though Greg was indulging him. Mycroft didn’t know what to make of it. But it made him feel...special. It fed a dangerous hope inside him.

Then came the text messages. The first one began with an accident.

**[11:57am]**

_I’ve just spilt coffee all over my good shirt and I’ve got to appear in court in an hour. Don’t suppose you’ve got any magic to save the day?_

Mycroft couldn’t tell whether he was serious or not. He stared at the message for several minutes, trying to parse out its tone. In the end, he erred on the side of caution and paged Andrea with a little job for an underling of her choice. 

**[12:02pm]**

**Yes**

He tried unsuccessfully to ignore his phone, checking it every few minutes and then grabbing it in an undignified manner when it lit up again.

**[12:37pm]**

_Wasn’t expecting this! Better than borrowing Dimmock’s. Thanks, I owe you one!_

**[12:42pm]**

_I guess when you said “anything” you really meant it. I figured it was a long shot but at least I won’t embarrass us in court now._

**[3:55pm]**

_The testimony went off without a hitch. I think this is my lucky shirt now. Remind me I owe you a pint._

Mycroft debated about a proper response for an uncomfortable length of time. 

**[6:55pm]**

**It was my pleasure.**

After that, Mycroft continued to receive little messages - inconsequential things throughout the week. He’d always preferred talking to texting - so much nuance got lost between the letters - but he understood it was easier for Greg than maintaining a conversation when he was so frequently pulled away by cases and colleagues and criminals. And in a strange way, it offered some breathing room. For the first time, Mycroft didn’t have any power to influence Greg through his words. He was safe in the knowledge that they were _just_ words and nothing else.

**[7:10am]**

_Don’t suppose you could do anything about the tube running late this morning?_

**[7:15am]**

**Alas, I’m afraid that sort of ‘magic’ isn’t my jurisdiction.**

**[7:16am]**

_Aren’t you in the department of transport? If that’s not your jurisdiction, I’m afraid to ask what is._

**[7:18am]**

**Very astute of you.**

_~_

**[8:19pm]**

_I have to say, Sherlock looks very good in a frock._

**[9:57pm]**

**I quite agree. Shall I get you one?**

**[9:57pm]**

_Don’t you dare. That’d be a laugh._

**[9:57pm]**

**Don’t sell yourself short.**

_~_

  
  


**[8:42am]**

_My kingdom for an emergency so I can escape this 3hr admin meeting._

**[8:45am]**

**Shall I urgently require your presence to test my newest bottle of scotch?**

**[8:46am]**

_You’re a star!_

~

**[9:45pm]**

_Never play darts with John Watson. He can pin a bullseye from across the room with his eyes closed and full of lager. Tell me how he’s cheating. I know you know._

**[9:53pm]**

**What makes you so sure he’s cheating?**

**[10:05pm]**

_Fine, keep your secrets then._

  
  


~

  
  


**[4:18pm]**

_A killer I sent down got set free today. Mind if I borrow your warehouse?_

**[4:20pm]**

**I’ve been informed that kidnapping is rude.**

**[4:21pm]**

_I’ll make an exception, just this once._

**[4:21pm]**

**That is a slippery slope, Greg. Take it from one who knows. Come to my office. I’ll provide a distraction.**

Meetings in Mycroft’s office had gained a cadence over the months. Greg popped in every other week, and it took Mycroft longer than it should have to realize that the visits roughly coincided with Greg’s check-ins to Sherlock’s flat, as though Greg had, for some reason, added the other Holmes brother to his self-imposed care roster. Their conversations ranged from questioning the nature of the universe to a deeply concerned analysis of the performance of the Arsenals. 

“You know I can’t help but feel my life has taken a strange turn since meeting you, Mycroft. I never imagined we’d be talking about footy on a Friday evening.” 

Mycroft smiled, quietly pleased that Greg felt comfortable here. “And I confess, it’s been a rather nice change to have a debate with someone who isn’t attempting to trick me into a political faux pas.” 

Greg nodded and looked down at his hands, fiddling with his fingers before giving Mycroft a sideways glance.

“Can I…” Greg hesitated. 

“Tell me what is on your mind.”

“I don’t want to pry, and it’s not really about Sherlock, or, or afterlives or anything. I just -” 

“Please.”

“You and Sherlock. And...Ford. You all...you all share the same birthday?” Greg’s voice lifted as if it were a question although Greg already knew it was true.

Mycroft’s heart began to sink. He knew where this conversation was going. He had time now to deflect, to derail it. To interrupt the trajectory of the speeding bullet. And yet. He resisted the urge to squirm, covering his discomfort with a sip of his drink. He nodded, unable to voice it. 

“So, if Sherlock and Ford are...uh, ‘special’, does that mean you’re...different too?” Greg wiped his mouth and flushed a little. “Sorry, you know what? Ignore me. I’m being rude - had too many drinks.”

Mycroft was thinking furiously, trying to figure out how much he could safely reveal. And then realized he was already well past the point of safety. His heart had already been handed to Greg, whether the man was aware of it or not. It could not be retrieved now, not without doing damage. The only path forward was through. 

He set his drink down on the table.

Greg had gathered himself to rise, looking flushed and embarrassed. Presumably he was about to leave, but Mycroft waved a calming hand in his direction and he settled himself again, although the tension in his frame betrayed his lingering discomfort. 

With all his instincts shrieking in his ear to stop, Mycroft slowly nodded his head. “You’re not a detective for nothing.” Greg’s eyes widened, as if he hadn’t expected Mycroft to actually confirm his suspicions. “You may be surprised to know that my ‘talents’ took quite a lot longer than Sherlock’s and Ford’s to identify, even though they were much younger when they manifested. It seems subtlety was to be a theme for my life. 

“As a politician, I...influence people, to pass good legislation, to listen to their constituents, to make the right choices for this nation.” Mycroft gritted his teeth before continuing. “But sometimes not everyone sees eye to eye.” 

Mycroft stopped again, parsing the confused look on Greg’s face. As usual, he hadn’t clarified anything at all, only thrown more obfuscating words at it. Heart rabbiting in his chest, he tried again. 

“Words, as you know, have power. But mine have...more than the idiomatic sort. Phrased correctly, my influence is such that its target does not have the ability to refuse me.” The words were bitter in his mouth and his heart felt sick with shame. He’d never explained it aloud to anyone before, and, like a spotlight shined on a gargoyle, it was revealed to be an ugly companion indeed. 

Greg’s mouth opened as he absorbed what Mycroft was telling him. His face was slowly pinching as the implications set in. One who was so committed to justice and due process would not easily grapple with such a violation. “So. You’re telling me that you...what? Mind control people? You can make them do things?” 

Mycroft dropped his head, no longer able to keep Greg’s gaze. He deserved every measure of censure that was reflected in Greg’s eyes. He inspected his hands where they lay in his lap, powerless to stop what was inevitably coming. His judgement was far past due.

“Mycroft, tell me that you haven’t _actually_ done this. You can’t just force people into things. What right do you have to play judge and jury? That’s assault at the very least.” His volume was rising.

“I’m certain an ethics board would have a field day dissecting my decisions at length, were the truth to be revealed.” In fact, they would likely argue he’d done a great deal of good, in the end, but he wasn’t all-knowing, and he’d certainly caused harm in order to achieve that good. There were no black and white answers here. Did the results justify the means? Mycroft didn’t know. He was defenseless. 

“What kinds of things are we talking about, Mycroft? What have you done?”

Mycroft felt as though the air had been sucked out of the room. He resisted the urge to gasp, instead reaching for whatever shred of honesty he had left in him and wrenching his confession forth into the light.

“I have forced a man to commit suicide. I have ordered government officials to lie. I have made a woman give up her secrets, leaving her powerless and exposed. I have removed persons from positions of power, and secured my own.” Mycroft’s hands began to tremble. He clenched his fingers into his knees to still them. 

He continued. “I have concealed unethical experimentation. I have bound men to silence, leaving them defenseless. I have removed free will. I have fundamentally altered personalities. I have done all these things, Gregory. I am dripping with a multitude of sins that will never wash out, with no one to judge me right or wrong. I am indelibly stained.” His voice went hoarse with shame.

Greg was wide-eyed as he stood from his chair. “Christ, Mycroft, he said softly. “That’s…” he blew out a breath. “That’s a lot. I need to- I don’t know. Process this. I- I have to go. I need to think. I can’t stay here right now.” He sounded weary, as though Mycroft had exhausted his reserves.

“Gregory.” Mycroft’s words halted Greg as he reached for his coat. Greg’s name felt forbidden in his mouth. “There is more.” He took a breath, and in his heart, he bid goodbye to his friend. “I have committed an offense against you for which I have not yet apologized.” He took a deep breath - and plunged. 

“Five years ago, in a warehouse just outside of London, I charged you to protect my brother, to trade your life for his, and bound you to him. I owe you an apology - more than the one I offered you on our second meeting. But I confess I do not know how to put into words the depth of my regret. No apology on earth would suffice.” The silence in the room was deafening.

Mycroft would never forget the look of horror that slowly dawned on Greg’s face. Greg snatched his coat and held it in front of his chest, as though that might protect him from further assault. “I have to go,” he said, face as white as a sheet, and he turned and stumbled out of Mycroft’s office. And thus, Mycroft watched the pieces of their dawning friendship dissolve, like ashes in the wind.

Mycroft slowly picked up Greg’s half-empty glass, stiffly, as though his limbs were creaking with age. The condensation was wet and cold against his hand. He looked at the ice cubes melting away, and then hurled it at the wall where it burst into shards. His heart knew that feeling now, too.


	9. In Which Sherlock Advocates for Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well no one was imagining a six-month delay in this chapter, but to be honest, no one expected much of what's happened this year. 
> 
> May 2021 be gentler on our creative souls.

Three weeks later, Sherlock showed up to a crime scene. Which was a surprise - it was a mundane burglary with no injuries - open and shut case. But looking back, Greg should have known he’d be here, not because he was invited, but because his phone had 12 missed calls and 10 voicemails that were all exactly 3 minutes long before the service auto-disconnected the message. Greg didn’t have the strength to listen to them yet. He was still reeling from the shock of his last conversation with Mycroft. 

He hadn’t meant to shut him out so completely, but Sherlock took a lot of energy to keep up with, some days, and Greg was utterly depleted. He was pouring all his energy into work instead, but now Sherlock was here anyway, picking at the fraying edge of a vaguely dirty white tee shirt - an undershirt that he suspected might actually be John’s, given the size of it. He danced at the edge of the crime tape, light restless steps more indicative of a child waiting for a bathroom than a man waiting to see his friend. A wave of guilt washed through him, and he turned the scene over to Donovan, warning her with a stern glance not to say anything before turning back to meet Sherlock at the edge of the tape. Greg was frankly impressed he hadn’t already breached the premises with his usual disregard for the conventions of official proceedings. 

Greg was barely within earshot before he heard Sherlock’s low tones start flooding the space between them, the words spilling fast and loose as though someone had taken his box of notecards and spilled them down a stairwell. His hands were punctuating his words as Greg got close enough to understand.

A quick glance and Greg could see Sherlock wasn’t altogether well. His nails were painted a dark sparkly purple, but chipped and worn at the edges where he’d obviously been picking at them. The tee shirt was accompanied by some very rumpled harem pants that Greg had only ever seen when Sherlock was ill or depressed. His lips were bitten and chapped, and his hand bore a series of angry red lines across the back, as though he’d been scratched by a wild animal. Greg’s guilt intensified as all the signs collected in his head that Sherlock was in distress. He looked around, but John was nowhere in sight. 

“...nobody really  _ knows _ the nature of truth, you know, because there’s no such thing, only events and the lies we tell ourselves about them - of course as an inspector, you already know this, about the multitude of shades of grey, how they twist and pollute reality into a contortion of sense, only sense is itself a mistruth, because events are the only pure truth, but the very act of perceiving them is a lie - our sight and hearing and memory all have inherent bias the way our brains are wired to  _ literally _ fill in the gaps of what we see to build what we  _ perceive _ , making our first impression impure and it only becomes more obscure as time goes on, you know, having taken witness statements...” 

Sherlock looked manic - his curls which were normally well coiffed were loose and wild as though they’d simply been left to air dry and he’d had his hands tangled in it, or perhaps an ambitious sparrow had attempted to make a nest there.

“...and circumstance makes all the difference. Two men with identical crimes get sentenced differently. Why? Circumstance. Intention. Morality.  _ Context _ , Greg, perception is where the devil lives, and it’s imperative that the sequence of events be reported not only in the correct order, but also in the correct setting. Language is inherently faulty in expressing the essence of an action, and yet it is all we have with which to build a picture of a snapshot in time which may or may not have been witnessed, but witnessing it obscures it with one layer, and then expressing in words adds yet another layer until it’s a bad game of telephone, and then told enough times, the lies we hear become the truth, only it isn’t really…”

“Sherlock?” Greg reached out a hand but didn’t touch him. Sherlock sometimes reacted badly to unexpected closeness and Greg had learned to ask first, but Sherlock didn’t seem in the headspace to be prepared. He wasn’t even quite sure Sherlock knew he was actually there, having walked in on conversations Sherlock was having with himself. Or with Ford, he supposed (that idea in itself was still baffling to him).

Sherlock didn’t look at him, simply monologued his thoughts in a rapid fire as his breathing hitched irregularly.

“Sherlock, it’s alright, mate. I hear you.”

Sherlock grabbed onto his wrist. Tight. Desperate. His eyes were wild and his grip trembled as he shifted his hand so their palms met. Sherlock’s words trailed off as Greg squeezed the man’s hand back gently, and placed his palm flat to the man’s chest, attempting dumbly to still the frantic breathing under his hand. 

“‘M here. It’s alright. Why don’t we pop over to that little bench over there and have a seat, alright?” Greg nodded to the park bench across the road. Sherlock followed him as though he were lost, and not entirely in the here-and-now. His words had quietened and as they sat down, Greg folded Sherlock’s long fingers between his palms and leaned into him, shoulder to shoulder. To an onlooker, it might seem very strange, but to Greg, it felt natural. 

“I can see you’re upset,” Greg said quietly, squeezing Sherlock’s hand. 

“Obvious,” he remarked with none of his usual haughtiness. 

“Did something happen?” Obviously it had, but Greg wasn’t sure what had spurred Sherlock to such an emotional height. 

Sherlock stiffened, his shoulders hitching up. “Mycroft is an idiot,” he said sadly, without venom. “He says things as though they’re absolute truth, but truth is just a construct.” 

“Sherlock did he tell you what happened?”

“Mycroft thinks if you strip something of nuance it makes it clearer. But he’s wrong. He’s _ wrong _ Greg. It’s like words without intonation. Poetry without format - stripped of all that  _ creates _ meaning.” 

“Are you saying he lied? That he didn’t do those things he said? That he didn’t...didn’t... _ cast a spell _ on me?” He spat the words, knowing full well how ridiculous they sounded, but unable to describe it differently. His gut roiled with frustration and the echo of sick fear as he realized what Mycroft had done to him.” 

“No, Greg. He didn’t  _ lie _ . But he didn’t tell the truth, either. And he is now refusing to do so. And so despite his wishes, I am here, asking you to do what you do best, and find what lies beneath. 

“Does that mean you’re admitting I’m a good detective?” 

Sherlock snorted, despite himself, and bit down on a small grin. 

“I can’t go back there, Sherlock. He said he’s coerced me, and I can’t put myself back within reach now - back in danger. How can I trust that he won’t use that against me? I don’t even know what he did!” 

“On that point, I can clear a few things up. While it’s true, he did...influence you...the Rumor was placed and then removed eight days later. He has regretted it ever since.” 

“Regret or not, Sherlock, that’s not the kind of thing you simply wrap your head around and forgive all at once. He took away my autonomy!” 

“The so-called justice system does that all the time,” Sherlock snatched his hand back to wave it around wildly. “You arrest people and hold them for up to 24 hours without charge. Isn’t that also a breach of liberty?”

“Those people are suspects, Sherlock! They’ve committed crimes! What was my crime?” 

“The world is not just, Greg. You know this - you have  _ always _ known this. Legality does not equal morality, you know this to be true, or I’d have been in jail  _ by your hands _ more than once. But sometimes the ends  _ do _ justify the means, and sometimes people simply  _ make mistakes. _ They make them, and they learn from them and they do not repeat them - this is the essence of living a life. Is he to be hoisted unto the gallows forever because of one decision?” 

Sherlock’s hands curled into fists, crumpling the fabric of his shirt between them until Greg feared it would be torn. But the force of Sherlock’s vehemence gave Greg pause. He took a deep breath and settled his hand on top of Sherlock’s again, releasing the man’s death grip on his clothing. Sherlock twined their fingers together again. His hands were cold. 

“I don’t know what to do, Sherlock,” Greg admitted quietly. 

“None of us do. That’s what makes us human.” 

“I don’t know if I can forgive him.” 

“You don’t have to. Just talk to him. Sometimes things that are broken can’t be unbroken. Sometimes we throw them away - lost for good. And sometimes we are like  _ kintsugi, _ made better, more beautiful by our scars. The difference is only in the choice we make on how to proceed.” Sherlock looked at the ground and let go of Greg’s hand, picking at his nail polish instead. 

“I...Sherlock,” Greg stuttered. He let out a long breath. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Ok, I’ll… I’ll talk to him, okay? But no promises.” 

Sherlock nodded and then bumped his shoulder against Greg’s. 

“How are you, otherwise? You look a bit rough. Everything okay at home?” Sherlock had moved in with his doctor friend, John, a while back and had presented himself quite clean and tidy ever since - but today he looked more than a bit shabby.

“He’s gone,” Sherlock said morosely.

“He moved out?” Greg was surprised - they’d been two peas in a pod since the day they met. “Did you have a row?” 

“Oh, no, nothing like that. He’s out of town, seeing an old friend.” The word ‘friend’ carried a bitter weight in Sherlock’s mouth. 

“He’ll be back, Sherlock. He’s allowed to have friends, you know.” 

Sherlock swallowed and nodded, but his face was still sour. Greg patted him on the shoulder and stood. “I’ve got to get back to the scene. Let me know if you want some company later, alright? Don’t stew alone in your flat.” 

Sherlock’s lower lip protruded as he stood also, shoulders hunched in on himself, the very picture of self-pity. He tilted his head suddenly to the left, a small twitch that might have been missed, had Sherlock not performed such a tick regularly. 

“Oh, right,” he said, as though reminded of something. “Best check the CCTV behind the music studio at the other end of the alley.” And with that, he straightened and strode away as though he hadn’t just taken Greg’s open-and-shut burglary case and tipped it upside down. Sherlock’s tips were always a sure sign of trouble. He sighed, heavy with the knowledge that he was about to open pandora’s box. 

  
  


**[2:55pm]**

_ Let’s talk.  _

**Author's Note:**

> This story deals with issues of minor character death (although some might argue he's only mostly dead) and grief. It also has mention of magical coersion which compels a person to follow directions, much like the Imperius Curse from Harry Potter. The story also contains generally canon-compliant references to drug use, crime, and violence. If you feel I've missed something, please let me know in the comments.


End file.
